


A Last Resort

by Neurotoxia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Charles Augustus Magnussen - Freeform, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3086975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord and Lady Smallwood, grasping at straws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Last Resort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficklepig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklepig/gifts).



> This was written for the December round of Holmestice 2014. Special thanks go to [crookedspoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon), who’s been invaluable in the last (slightly frantic) twenty-four hours of writing this. Without them, I would still be running in circles, screaming madly. Victoria is actually the creation of crookedspoon, I just borrowed her for this fic because I really like the character ~~And I have hopes of finally bugging my dear friend to write some more for her~~

“I appreciate you taking the time, Mycroft,” Lord Smallwood says, rotating the glass of Brandy in his fingers. Nervous gesture. It doesn’t need the deductive capabilities of a man like him to see that Lord and Lady Smallwood have not been well.

Lady Smallwood’s posture of dignity has become one of tension and Lord Smallwood has lost seven pounds in five days, bearing the signs of a man who’s lacking restful sleep and a healthy appetite. 

“It’s my pleasure. What brings you here?” Mycroft asks, putting on his best intonation of polite interest. He already has an idea what the reason for the visit is: Charles Augustus Magnussen, who’s on Mycroft’s mind with increasing frequency.

Lady Smallwood sits on the committee investigating the same man – and if there were a foolproof way to paint a target on one’s back, this would be it.

Mycroft discouraged an investigation of Magnussen, but the public demanded it, fuelled by CAM’s rivals who are eager to see the foreign media mogul under fire. There was no way to prevent the investigation, much as he would have liked to.

“There are some matters of security. Private security,” Lady Smallwood offers, picking at the basil leaves arranged on top of the Avocado and Balsamic Bruschetta hors d’oeuvre. Sign of distraction. Usually, her manners would never allow her to pick at her food. “We would appreciate your help, as we find ourselves running out of options.”

The options being Sherlock, who is currently lounging in a hospital bed, doted on by John Watson and pumping himself full of morphine on medical orders. No doubt his brother enjoys the free supply of drugs. Nevertheless, it was involving himself with Magnussen that landed Sherlock in a hospital with a gunshot wound and Mycroft finds it worrisome how close to home Magnussen hits these days. Operating outside the official channels is Mycroft’s specialty and the requests for his help always occur when the law can’t or won’t solve anything. High ranking officials or royalty come to him when the matter is too delicate to entrust to any agency that keeps official records. 

“If it is within my power to help,” Mycroft says. There’s precious little that lies outside his power, but Magnussen is a very powerful man himself.

He debates asking his wife Victoria to leave to avoid her hearing about Magnussen’s doings, but he can’t. It would be rude in front of their guests. The Smallwoods have given no adverse reaction to her presence, whether they are too caught up in their own misery to care or because they hope that her doctorate in law could help them, Mycroft doesn’t know. 

“As you know, my wife is part of the investigation surrounding Charles Magnussen,” Lord Smallwood beings, losing his train of thought and stopping again, staring into the bustling fireplace with a vacant expression. 

Mycroft inclines his head, encouraging the man to go on. He wants him to stop stalling and get to the point. Thankfully, Lady Smallwood possesses enough sense to pick up the thread of the conversation: “You might already be aware, but Magnussen paid me a visit after the first hearing to let me know about certain materials in his possession. Materials that could damage Andrew’s career, and affect mine as well.”

She takes a sip of wine to steel her nerves, obviously revisiting the occasion in her mind. A distressing visit, no doubt. Lady Smallwood is not a weak-spirited woman, but Magnussen has a talent for intimidation. Her husband takes her free hand, squeezing it in encouragement.

“Blackmail? By Charles Magnussen?” Victoria asks, an expression of surprise on her face. She dislikes his papers and television channels and once mumbled something along the lines of an ‘untrustworthy face’ when she saw his picture in a magazine article, but she hasn’t seen criminal potential in him. Mycroft is aware that she was brought up to believe in journalism as an art of speaking the truth and upholding the principles of free speech, although as the daughter of a newspaper publisher, she should know better.

“He’s an... unpleasant individual,” Lady Smallwood says with barely restrained disgust. Her husband nods in agreement, opening his mouth to supply more evidence to the claim.

“What materials?” Mycroft asks to prevent the topic derailing into a character analysis of Magnussen. His personality is not important.

“Letters. Old letters, but their nature is – delicate, so to say.”

“If we could arrive at the point of the discussion, Andrew,” Mycroft says, tired of the avoidance. They came to see him and request his help, the least they could do is to be brief and concise. Holding their hands wouldn’t solve the problem.

“Always direct,” Andrew Smallwood says with a nervous smile. “I apologise for beating around the bush, but it’s not easy to talk about it after such a long time. Frankly, I never spoke to anyone about it, except Elizabeth.”

“Andrew exchanged letters with a young woman,” Lady Smallwood explains, finally taking a bite of her bruschetta. “They are innocent enough, but in the hands of the media, they could prove fatal.”

“It was many years ago, before I even met Elizabeth,” Andrew hastens to explain, as if Mycroft were interested whether Smallwood committed adultery.

“I take it the young woman was very young indeed?” Mycroft asks mildly. A relationship with a young woman doesn’t cost you your career this day and age, not even an adulterous one. A relationship with an underage girl however…

“Fifteen,” Elizabeth Smallwood mutters and squeezes her husband’s hand once more. 

Victoria doesn’t comment, which fits her habit of rather listening than speaking. However, Mycroft sees her eyebrows rise towards her hairline and her pity for Lord Smallwood plummet. No surprise, given her protectiveness of their sons; one of them just turned fifteen two weeks ago. If anyone tried to take advantage of him, pity the poor soul to endure her wrath.

“I thought she was older. But nothing really happened…” He trails off, sparing Mycroft the rest of the flimsy excuses. “The papers would turn me into a depraved predator.”

“And those letters were why you hired my brother, Elizabeth?”

“Yes,” Lady Smallwood says. “I would have preferred to reclaim the letters by an unofficial party outside the government and your brother is said to be one of the keenest minds in the country.” She looks uncomfortable that Mycroft brought Sherlock into the conversation, but Mycroft takes some satisfaction from seeing her slither around the subject. Her involvement set Sherlock on Magnussen’s trail; a place where Mycroft decidedly does not want him. If Sherlock butted heads with Magnussen, it could blow back on Mycroft and Mycroft is determined not to open himself to any attacks from CAM or Magnussen himself. 

“My brother is also reckless and prone to underestimating the dangers he puts himself into. As is evident by his recent hospitalisation.”

“Mycroft!” Victoria speaks up for once. “Don’t be so unkind, Sherlock nearly died!”

Why his wife held such fondness for Sherlock, Mycroft couldn’t begin to guess. His brother is outright rude to her whenever they meet. 

“Is it connected to Magnussen?” Elizabeth Smallwood asks, looking shocked. 

“Sherlock doesn’t recall the events right before the incident,” Mycroft lies. Sherlock hasn’t forgot a second until he lost consciousness, but word getting out of Sherlock Holmes found shot and bleeding in the office of an unconscious Charles Augustus Magnussen would prove an inconvenience. Mycroft contained the news, put a lid on the police reports. It was a curious incident in more ways than one. 

“With your brother indisposed, we think that only you can still do something to prevent Magnussen from releasing the letters to the public.”

“And you’re certain the letters are in Magnussen’s possession?”

“No, but it’s a possibility.” Andrew Smallwood presses his lips into a thin line. “I never knew what became of most of them – I didn’t keep track. And he knows the contents after all.”

Why must he present such an easy target, losing track of incriminating letters? Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if he really thought the letters were innocent; people were adept at spinning facts in their own heads until they fit their purpose. But in the end, it doesn’t matter whether Magnussen has the letters. If he prints the story, people will believe it. There is enough truth in it to convince the public anyway, with or without the actual evidence. Other circumstantial evidence will find its way to the media, because not only are the masses gullible, they can be like bloodhounds with the right kind of scandal. Sex and politics were always selling points.

“You must realise that your request is a tall order. Charles Augustus Magnussen is a careful man, and unfortunately, also an intelligent one.”

“There must be something you can do, Mycroft!” Elizabeth Smallwood exclaims, gripping her glass. “How can we let a single man blackmail Members of Parliament?” Mycroft finds her strength almost admirable – she’s still got a fighting spirit. Her husband, in comparison, already looks like a broken man.

“My dear Elizabeth, the act is no doubt reprehensible, but there is not much room for me to manoeuvre. Not, if we want to keep this quiet,” Mycroft says, the tips of his fingers steepled together (a habit Mycroft shares with Sherlock, although Sherlock no doubt insists that Mycroft copies him). “It requires a delicate hand and at the same time the force of a blunt hammer.” 

Andrew Smallwood’s face falls. “But will you try?” he asks, holding onto his wife’s hand again.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Mycroft doesn’t like giving vague answers, but he can’t afford to commit himself to one answer. If he promises his help, they will expect results he won’t be able to deliver. If he declines, who knows what the Smallwoods might resort to in their despair. He needs them to remain a predictable entity. 

“Thank you,” Lady Smallwood sighs, content to have at least the vague assurance. Her husband only nods and takes a large sip of brandy. Some of the tension has disappeared from the lines on his face, but it’s apparent he doesn’t dare hope just yet.

With the reason for their visit dealt with, Lord and Lady Smallwood don’t linger much longer; only what manners dictate so as not to appear rude. They make some more polite conversation, mainly between Victoria and Elizabeth about gardening and how they plan to secure their plants for the impending autumn and winter. Mycroft pours Andrew Smallwood a second brandy and exchanges a few words about the newest EU regulations with him until Andrew makes their excuses.

“I feel sorry for Elizabeth,” Victoria says when they return to their sitting room alone. She shakes her head and drains her glass of red wine. “Andrew, however, is an idiot. There is nothing innocent about a much older man courting a young girl. ‘Looked older,’ sure.”

“He _is_ an idiot,” Mycroft agrees and leans back in his armchair.

“Are you going to help them? It’s not like you to be so vague when asked a direct question.”

Sometimes, he thinks he should have married someone less perceptive. Although it’s unlikely that he would have been able to stand her presence for this long were she as stupid as most people.

“I’d rather not wage a war against Charles Augustus Magnussen, but I felt it unwise to tell them so. Who knows what they might do.”

“There must be something that can be done about him,” Victoria says with her brows furrowed. She taps her lips with her index finger: she’s thinking up ways to find a solution to the problem, find a law or paragraph that could resolve it all within the realms of law and order. Mycroft knows all relevant laws himself by heart, there is nothing official or legal that could help the Smallwoods _and_ keep their reputation intact.

“What does your father say about Magnussen?” he asks.

“He calls him a snake. And a lot of other names I’d rather not repeat,” Victoria grimaces.

“Your father is right,” Mycroft says and allows himself a third brandy. A problem like Magnussen calls for strong liquor. “I think it’s best not to engage him. With any luck, Magnussen is bluffing,” 

“And if he’s not?”

“I prefer him taking down one peer over inciting him to go after the truly important people in this country.” It’s a simple calculation of risks and merits. There’s little merit in challenging Charles Magnussen over the reputation of a single Lord of no greater importance. In the grander scheme of things, Lord Smallwood is but a pawn where Mycroft is the queen.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Victoria says and gets up, smoothing down the fabric of her honey-coloured dress. “I think I’ll go to bed. Good night.”

Mycroft mutters and absent-minded good night and continues to watch the fire, swaying the glass of brandy in his right. Sherlock in hospital, the Smallwoods under threat, he wonders where this game with Magnussen will lead them all.

Two weeks later, he enters the dining room for breakfast, finding several things straying from the usual. The papers next to his plate are not his preferred choice, but rather several CAM publications. Also, Victoria is present, although she doesn’t visit his lodgings in Westminster often in the mornings. She’s dressed in a black suit, business attire, so she stopped by although all of her work relations lie outside Westminster. Something important then.

“I thought you might like to see these before you go to work,” she says by way of greeting and nods to the papers while she sets down a pot of tea.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in faint wonder and sits down at the table, taking the first paper from the stack while Victoria pours them a cup of tea. He unfolds the newspaper to find a familiar face staring back at him.

_’Lord Andrew Smallwood accused of dubious relations with teenage girl’_

“So it wasn’t a bluff,” Victoria says and Mycroft hears her stir sugar into her tea.

“It seems not.” Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line of displeasure. This is an unfortunate development.

Magnussen made his opening move: he’s struck down a pawn. 

It’s time for the queen to retaliate.


End file.
